Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series)

by Gerber, Daryl Wood

  A waitress with her hair cinched in a hairnet whisked by and said, “What’s going on?” Lola cut her a scathing look. “None of my business,” the waitress chimed. “Got it.” She continued on her mission of fetching a pair of breadbaskets.

  Bailey and I sidled between Cinnamon and Lola. “She didn’t do it,” we said as if we had rehearsed.

  Perspiration coated Lola’s face. With her ruby lips pressed together, she seemed to be as focused as an Iron Chef in the final moments of competition.

  “Give me the facts, Mrs. Bird,” Cinnamon said.

  “Lola,” Bailey interjected. “Call my mother Lola. No one calls her Mrs. Bird.” Bailey hated her last name. She wished her mother had switched back to her maiden name after her divorce. Bailey would have latched onto the surname Hastings in a flash. Her father, a decent guy who practiced law in San Francisco, would have been upset, but he would have allowed it.

  “I’m waiting, Lola,” Cinnamon said, granting the informality.

  Lola blew out a quick burst of air, then reiterated what she had told Pepper back at the shop. She had gone to the restroom. The door stuck. Yada yada.

  Right as she finished her account, in strode my father, a Cary Grant look-alike, who was, as luck would have it, named Cary. He didn’t have the actor’s charming swagger; he was a former FBI analyst and moved like a military man. He greeted Cinnamon, who nodded respectfully back. The two of them had a unique relationship. A month ago, I was surprised to learn that my father was Cinnamon’s mentor. Her father had bailed on her at birth. In her teens, when she was going off the rails, acting up and committing juvenile-style crimes, my father, who had a history with Cinnamon’s mother, stepped in to offer support. When Cinnamon showed an interest in the law, my father steered her back to Crystal Cove. Long story short, he now cared for her like a daughter.

  My father hurried to Lola and put his hand on her elbow. “Put the knife down, darling.” Another big shock for me . . . Recently, I’d learned that my father and Lola were dating. My mother would’ve been happy that my father had found someone, especially Lola. She and Lola had been good friends. “You’ve got plenty of staff to do the cooking,” Dad said. As always, he was as tranquil as a summer sea.

  Lola turned to him, her blue eyes wide with dismay. “How did you hear? You weren’t at the competition.”

  “I arrived at The Cookbook Nook late. I’m so sorry. Of all days to have a run on T-nuts.” After retiring, my father, who didn’t need money because his FBI analyst work had filled his coffers to overflowing, had purchased a quaint hardware store; he opened the shop when he cared to.

  “I didn’t do it,” Lola said.

  “I know.” He stroked the nape of her neck. “Everyone in town knows you didn’t.”

  “Not her.” Lola eyed Cinnamon.

  “Hush, Lola.” The mayor emerged through the archway. “Don’t say another word. I’m going to represent you.” She, like Lola, was also a licensed lawyer; however, her clients were mainly real estate purchasers, not criminals. Not that Lola was a criminal. She wasn’t.

  “I don’t need you, ZZ,” Lola said. “Besides, you can’t. That would be a conflict of interest. You’re my friend.”

  The mayor wagged a finger. “Only a fool represents herself.”

  “What is this, a convention?” Cinnamon said. “Everyone out.”

  Lola gazed at the burgeoning crowd. Suddenly, as if doused with awareness dust, the lines in her forehead smoothed out and she stood taller. With a command befitting a judge, she said, “Chief Pritchett is right. Out, everyone, otherwise I’ll have the health authorities on my case. Out. Chief Pritchett, my office. Please.” She whipped off her prep gloves, tossed them in the trash beside the sink, and marched from the kitchen.

  Near the hostess desk, I caught up to Cinnamon. “Lola didn’t do this.”

  Cinnamon paused and held up a hand. “I respect your passion, but I heard about the argument between Lola and Natalie in front of the Word the other day.” One of her colleagues must have filled her in after I left the crime scene.

  Bailey joined us. “Natalie Mumford was the one who was livid.”

  I concurred. “Lola was making light. She always does. She never holds a grudge.”

  Cinnamon muttered something under her breath. As she entered the office, the feeling of apprehension that hit me earlier returned. The office seemed as stark as a prison cell: one desk fitted with a blotter and an in-and-out box, a chair, a file cabinet, a couple of pictures of Lola with her staff or with Bailey, and one lonely wooden totem of fish going upstream that Bailey had carved at Girl Scout camp. Lola stood beside the metal desk, arms by her sides, chin raised defiantly.

  I said, “Chief, I’m guessing you’ve got something more on Lola, something other than supposition and your mother’s biased statement, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “We have a document.”

  “A document?” Bailey bleated. “What kind of document?”

  At Taylor & Squibb, I was the lead for the Legal Easy campaign, a do-it-yourself approach to law. In each ad, a ghostly paper assaulted a Scrooge-like man. Each paper was scrawled with his signature. An image of a confession signed by Lola floated before my eyes.

  Bailey said, “Mom, do you know what document the police found?”

  Lola nodded. “That’s what we were discussing when all of you barged into the kitchen.”

  “What is it?” Bailey looked as if she was trying to brace herself for the worst.

  “A letter of resignation from my chef. It’s nothing.”

  “I wouldn’t call it nothing,” Cinnamon said. “That’s what the basis of the argument was between you and Natalie, correct?”

  “Not the letter,” Lola said. “The deed.”

  “The deed to the diner?” Bailey asked.

  “No.” Lola faced Bailey. “The deed. The act. Natalie stole my chef.”

  Cinnamon said, “I heard Natalie Mumford promised your chef a bigger salary.”

  Lola snickered. “I’ll bet that’s not all she promised.”

  “Lola, don’t,” Mayor Zeller warned.

  “He made advances at me. What do you want to bet—”

  “Lola, enough,” the mayor cut in. “No more answers. No more innuendos. I happen to know Natalie had no romantic involvement with your chef.”

  “Right. You were her friend, too,” Lola said, a distinctive nastiness to the final word.

  Cinnamon pressed on. “Receiving the resignation letter could have made you mad enough to attack Natalie.”

  “Oh, please. I received the letter nearly ten days ago, the day he quit. I tore it up and tossed it into that.” Lola pointed at the trash can beside her desk.

  “Because you were mad,” Cinnamon said.

  “If I’d wanted to kill Natalie because of her dastardly plot, don’t you think I had plenty of time before today?”

  “Lola, hush,” the mayor said.

  “Maybe she taunted you while you were on break at the Grill Fest,” Cinnamon suggested.

  “I was in the restroom,” Lola said. “Besides, Natalie wouldn’t have dared to take me on in private. She was always about public displays of dis-affection.”

  “Lola.” Mayor Zeller clapped her hands once.

  My father said, “Darling, listen to your lawyer.”

  “She’s not my lawyer.”

  “Cool your heels.” The mayor flicked Lola’s arm with a finger.

  Lola sealed her lips and mimed locking them with an imaginary key. Bailey grabbed my hand and squeezed like her life depended upon it. Cinnamon, who seemed sufficiently stalemated, pivoted toward the door.

  A new idea came to me. I stepped in front of her. “Lola doesn’t bolt the door to this office. You saw for yourself. We walked right in. Anybody could have stolen the destroyed letter. Where did you find it?”

  “In Natalie’s purse,” Cinnamon answered. “Taped back together.”

  “Why would I put the letter in Natalie’s purse?” L
ola asked. “Do I look dumb?”

  “The murderer must have planted the letter,” I said. “Did you check the fingerprints on the tape? Are they Lola’s?”

  “How could I have discerned that in this short—” Cinnamon mashed her lips together. “There were no fingerprints. The tape appeared to be wiped clean.”

  “What about the weapon?” I asked.

  “Also free of prints. However, I happened to notice that Lola wears prep gloves at the restaurant.”

  She was right. Lola had tossed a pair of latex gloves before exiting the kitchen. I said, “Where’s the chef who quit? Maybe he killed Natalie.”

  “No,” Lola cut in. “Natalie said he moved to Vegas.”

  Cinnamon said, “I will be following up on that aspect.”

  I gazed at Lola and back at Cinnamon. How had the killer timed Natalie’s murder to the bathroom break? Then it came to me. “The fire alarm,” I blurted out. “It was flipped on as a diversion.”

  Cinnamon threw me a baleful look.

  “Of course you’ve thought of that,” I said. Dumb me. Open mouth, insert head. “Do you know if any of our neighboring storeowners saw anything?” The alley was situated between Fisherman’s Village and the next row of stores.

  “I haven’t had time to question anyone yet.”

  Of course not. We’d all dashed after Lola.

  Bailey shivered beside me. “Chief Pritchett, I’ve heard that Natalie’s family wasn’t all that happy with her. She ruled them with an iron fist.”

  I liked Natalie’s daughter. She was a regular customer at The Cookbook Nook. I hated to think her capable of murder, but I didn’t want Cinnamon to consider Lola the only suspect, either. Did Natalie’s daughter or son-in-law have an alibi? Neither had been in attendance at the Grill Fest.

  I said, “Who stands to inherit from Natalie’s death? She was pretty well-off, right?”

  Our illustrious chief of police peered at me with frustration. “We’re done here.”

  “But all I asked—”

  “Done.”

  She was wrong. The murder had happened outside my store. My best friend’s mother was a suspect. I was anything but done.

  Chapter 5

  BAILEY AND I returned to The Cookbook Nook, both of us perplexed as to what we could do to help her mother. In the Fisherman’s Village parking lot, customers clustered in groups while Chief Pritchett’s dedicated staff questioned individuals. On the boardwalk, people gathered around a table adorned with plates of cookies and an urn of coffee. Katie must have set it up so the disenfranchised wouldn’t go hungry.

  I paused in the shop’s doorway and said, “Oh my.”

  Bailey said, “What the heck?”

  Although the bookshelves had been returned to their rightful spaces, the shop looked as unkempt and as out of sorts as I felt. Customers had abandoned cascades of books on tables. Aprons were flung on chairs. When the firemen said, Get out, the masses had dropped everything. Shoot.

  My aunt sat at the vintage kitchen table turning over tarot cards for no one but herself. She said, “You can feel the bad karma, can’t you?”

  I nodded. This time I could.

  “How’s your mother, Bailey?” Aunt Vera asked.

  “Fine, sort of.” She sucked back a sob. “I’m going to the stockroom if you want me.”

  “I’ve got coffee brewing,” my aunt said.

  “No, thanks.”

  “No?” Aunt Vera eyed me.

  I whispered, “She’s off caffeine, remember?”

  Bailey slogged through the shop, shoulders slumped, the spring gone from her step.

  “Poor dear,” Aunt Vera said as she stroked the amulet around her neck.

  “Say a special incantation for her.”

  “I’m not a witch.”

  “You know what I mean.” I surveyed the shop again. A little moan escaped my lips. It would take hours to clean up the mess.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” my aunt said. “We’ll get to it in time. It’s not like we’re opening again today.”

  “We’re not? Why not?”

  “Ask Katie.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the kitchen. Where else?” Aunt Vera held up a finger. “By the way, that woman who owns the knitting shop down the street said she saw a UPS delivery person in the vicinity right before the fire alarm went off, but that’s not unusual.”

  I continued on toward the café and gasped when I reached the archway to the cooking area. Halfway across the room, someone had pinned up yellow crime-scene tape. My stomach wrenched at the sight. Not again, I thought. I’d had nightmares about yellow crime-scene tape—twisting, writhing, and suffocating nightmares—all because of the murder of my friend on opening day. And now Natalie Mumford had been killed at our first town-sponsored function. What was going on? Did some otherworldly spirit have it in for my aunt and me? I wasn’t sure either of our artistic souls could take the hit.

  Buck up, Jenna. You can get through this.

  “Katie, why is this tape here?” I said. “Natalie was killed outside.”

  She rushed to me, trying to placate me with hand gestures. “Don’t panic. The police merely determined this was the route Natalie took before she met her doom.”

  “Why do you think she came to the kitchen?”

  “I don’t have the foggiest. Maybe she stole in to grab some special ingredient for her Monte Cristo grilled cheese. The tape won’t stay up forever. No longer than a day, so I’ve been told.”

  I calculated the financial loss, not that it mattered. Aunt Vera wouldn’t mind. She hadn’t opened The Cookbook Nook and café to make a profit. Back in the seventies, she and the love of her life had planned to open the shop, but life had taken a sour turn. For no reason that she could fathom, he’d left her at the altar. Nearly thirty years passed before she was ready to try opening the shop again. With me.

  “The weapon, Jenna.”

  “What about it?”

  “It was my panini grill. An old one I brought from home. I planned to take it and other kitchen items to the Goodwill store. The items were sitting on the ground outside.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I told the police. One of our staff corroborated my story. Are you okay?” Katie gripped my arm. “You look pale.”

  “I feel pooky. I’ve got to get some fresh air.”

  “Why don’t you go around town and pass out flyers telling everyone the café will be open again tomorrow?” Katie suggested. “Tell them I’m planning an extra special menu for the occasion. It’ll be right out of Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Her famous Veal Prince Orloff will be one of the items.” She kissed the tips of her fingertips. “Ooh la la. Drop a few hints.”

  “Will do.”

  Katie screwed up her mouth as if she were afraid to ask me a question.

  “Spit it out,” I said.

  “What’s going to happen to the Grill Fest?”

  “The mayor decreed that it would continue. She assured me that Natalie would have wanted it to go on.”

  “Re-e-e-ally?”

  “I know. Ick, right?” Natalie had reveled in slaying the competition for eight straight years. Now she was the one that had been slain.

  When I returned to the shop, Bailey reappeared. She had touched up her makeup, so she looked better but not refreshed.

  “What’s up?” She latched onto me. “You look like a woman on a mission.”

  I told her my plan.

  “Let me join you. Vera, you can hold down the fort, right?”

  My aunt didn’t answer. She seemed to be transfixed by the site of a Tower tarot card, which many considered an ill omen. Lightning and chaos spewed from the top of the image.

  I slipped beside her and whispered, “Are you okay if we leave?”

  “Too-ra-loo.” Usually she said that phrase with a light heart. Not this time.

  The late-afternoon sun beat down on Bailey and me. Thankfully I had remembered to apply
sun block. I was blessed with the Hart family’s olive skin, but even olive skin can burn.

  While dropping off flyers at the glitzy shops in the all-brick Artiste Arcade, Bailey said, “If you ask me, one of Natalie’s family killed her. She was making big bucks at that diner. Have you seen the traffic?”

  “I’m sure Cinnamon is looking into who will inherit Natalie’s estate.”

  “Not if her grump of a mother has any say. Pepper thinks my mom is guilty with a capital G. Dagnabbit, but that woman is as bitter as hemlock.”

  I couldn’t remember ever hearing Bailey say anything stronger than dagnabbit. If she was furious, she would simply say the word louder. But saying it meant she was perking up. “Don’t worry about Pepper,” I said. “I’m pretty sure Cinnamon has her mother under control.” They’d had a mother-daughter argument a few weeks ago. If rumors were true, Cinnamon had told her mother to stop trying to run her life and go fly a kite. I think she also ordered Pepper to make peace with me. A week later, Pepper ventured into the shop and bought a discounted Martha Stewart cookbook. It was a start.

  “What else could be a motive?” Bailey said. “Sex? Politics? Rock and roll?”

  “Your mother insinuated that the chef who resigned made a pass at her.”

  Bailey flicked her hand. “Nah, not him. He was as gentle as a lamb and about as gay as they come.”

  “He’s gay? Then why would your mother say that?”

  “That’s my mom. An instigator. She leaked the notion so others would latch onto it.”

  “Any reason the chef might have wanted Natalie dead?”

  “I doubt it. Natalie doubled his pay. And didn’t you hear? Mom said, according to Natalie, that the guy took a better gig in Las Vegas. The guy was all about things. He loved having money in the bank. Speaking of banks, any news on that safety deposit box key David left you?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But—”

  “Later.”

  After we made the rounds at the eclectic shops at the Artiste Arcade, we headed for a string of stores that I liked to call our mini–San Francisco. The complex was composed of an octet of narrow, two-story bayside structures. Each had charming windows and portholes. All of the structures were painted aqua blue with white trim.