Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series)

by Gerber, Daryl Wood

  Negotiating my way past an exiting pair of Frisbee enthusiasts, I led the way into Home Sweet Home, a delicious store filled with homemade potpourri, scented candles, and collectibles. As always, customers gathered near the year-round Christmas tree to find Crystal Cove–themed ornaments. The neon-colored surfboard ornaments garnered the most attention.

  Flora Simple, the owner, who was the Grill Fest contestant who beaded all of her clothing, happened to be a good friend of Pepper Pritchett’s. After Pepper’s conciliatory visit to our shop, Flora had become a regular. She was particularly fond of chocolate-themed cookbooks. She hurried to us, offering a wave. “Hi, Jenna. Hi, Bailey.” Her apple cheeks, which were usually gleaming with health, looked wan. She tucked a loose strand of limp blonde hair over one ear and toyed with the thick braid that she always wore pulled forward over one shoulder. “It’s horrible, isn’t it? Just horrible. Truly. Ugh.” Her words came out in a gush. “Natalie, dead. I still can’t believe it.”

  I flashed on Natalie lying in the alley, but I pushed the memory aside. Dwelling on the scene wouldn’t solve anything.

  “I hope it won’t hurt your business,” Flora went on. “I know we were all looking forward to participating in the Grill Fest. Natalie, especially. She would have won again, of course, and, well . . .” She sagged as if she had run out of air.

  “We’ll be up and running tomorrow,” I assured her. “And the Grill Fest will continue.”

  “Really? I mean, how can you?” She covered her mouth then between parted fingers said, “Not you you. It’s the mayor’s decision, I guess.”

  I agreed that perhaps Mayor Zeller was moving forward like a steam engine on full throttle, but what could I do?

  “I bet you’ll have all sorts of new clientele,” Flora confided. “There’s no bad publicity, or so I heard a few people saying at the bank. That reminds me.” She scanned the shop to see if anyone was listening to us. No one seemed to be. Sotto voce, she said, “I was just there, at the bank, making my usual late-afternoon deposit, and I caught sight of Mitzi. You’ll never guess what she was doing.” She didn’t wait for us to beg her to continue. “Mitzi was hiding behind her car.”

  “Hiding?” I gulped. “Like someone was after her?”

  Bailey said. “On the break, Mitzi said she was heading to the beach for her daily dose of vitamin D. Is it possible she saw the killer?”

  At the end of the passageway between Beaders of Paradise and the Nook Café was a set of stairs that led to the public beach below. If Mitzi had gone that direction, she would have had a view inside the café. Maybe she’d seen Natalie’s killer. On the other hand, what if Mitzi was the killer? She could have easily run from the patio, through the café, to the alley. She’d fought with Natalie at last year’s fest. What if Mitzi confronted Natalie, and Natalie, true to form, said something that made Mitzi fly into a rage?

  “I don’t think she was hiding out of fear,” Flora said. “I think she was spying.”

  “Are you sure it was her?” I said.

  “Blonde chignon, chic Chanel suit. She was crouched behind her Toyota and peering into the bank.”

  “Who was she spying on?” Bailey asked.

  “Sam was inside.”

  I shook my head. “I thought her husband was at a conference in San Jose.”

  “It must have ended early,” Flora said. “Anyway, he was chatting up this Asian teller. You know the one I mean, with the tattoos.” She fluttered her fingers along an arm and up her neck. “She looks like she’s straight out of an anime graphic novel.”

  “You mean manga,” Bailey offered. “Manga are the comics. Anime is the Japanese style of animation.”

  “That’s it. Manga. Oh, if I could draw like that,” Flora said. “I mean, I can draw, but not . . . you know, like that. The money I’d make. I have such a fertile imagination. I’d write books upon books. All about teens. I adored my teen years.”

  I said, “Back to Mitzi.”

  “If you don’t believe me—”

  “I believe you.”

  “I think she suspects Sam is cheating on her.”

  Why would Mitzi suppose that? By all I had ever witnessed, Sam adored his wife. She was pretty and smart and had a thriving business. On the other hand, he had flirted with Natalie on the boardwalk, and I was pretty certain Natalie had been flirting with him . . . until she’d turned to ice. I said, “Go on.”

  Flora glanced another time at her customers. More had joined the growing crowd by the Christmas tree. Two women were tussling over the last surfboard ornament.

  “I don’t think Sam has heard about Natalie’s murder yet,” Flora said. “He was doing business things at the bank. You know, very normal. Showing his ID, signing forms. He didn’t seem to be upset in any way.”

  “Mitzi didn’t go inside and tell him?”

  “Like I said, I think she was keeping tabs on him.” Flora folded her arms. “He’ll be devastated. He adored Natalie. He’d been her business manager for almost eight years.”

  Bailey said, “What did Mitzi do next?”

  “She started to cry, and she hurried off. Poor dear. It’s hard to compete with youth. Don’t get me wrong. Mitzi is great looking for her age, but married men and young girls”—Flora cradled a cheek with her hand—“it’s a given, right?”

  I cut a look at Bailey, whose face had turned crimson. She had been one of those young girls. Luckily, she had discovered the snake was married, and she ended the relationship before he could break her heart.

  Flora continued. “That led me to thinking in a whole new direction, you know, about the murder. What if Mitzi wanted to get rid of another kind of competition? Don’t get me wrong. I like Mitzi. Everybody does. But with Natalie dead, Mitzi stands a good chance at winning the Grill Fest, right?”

  “You stand as good a chance,” Bailey said.

  “Me?” Flora waggled a finger. “No, no, no. I’ll come in last, make no mistake. I know the things I do well.” She gestured to the store. “I sew, I make potpourri, and I can fashion wax into the most glorious shapes, but I’m a moderate cook. I entered the competition because ZZ is a steady client, and I knew the recipe she would like. Grilled cheese made with Brie, pears, balsamic vinegar, and onions. She’s a Brie fanatic. Why, last week she bought this gorgeous handblown plate I made for the sole purpose of serving Brie on it. Personally, I like harder cheeses.” Flora tapped her temple. “Where was I? Oh, right, Mitzi. She’s the one who stands to win the Grill Fest, which means, if for no other reason, she had motive to kill Natalie.”

  Flora talked for another fluid two minutes about how great a job the mayor was doing at promoting tourism before I cut her off by saying we had to make the rounds of all the shops before nightfall.

  Crystal Cove was about six miles long in total; the shopping area along Buena Vista Boulevard ran about two miles in each direction. In between conversations with shop owners—none of whom proved as gossipy as Flora—Bailey and I tried to come up with other motives for murdering Natalie Mumford. Bailey’s mother deserved our utmost at drumming up other suspects. According to Aunt Vera, who had filled me in on the Grill Fest contestants’ histories while we had set up The Cookbook Nook earlier, Natalie Mumford had moved to Crystal Cove right before the first Grill Fest. She’d purchased the diner within a month, changed the name to Mum’s the Word, and it instantly became a go-to place. Its location on The Pier was a good part of the reason for its success, but the food was the other. The diner offered hearty baked goods, sizeable portions, and supposedly the best potpie anywhere, bar none.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Bailey said.

  “About?”

  “Natalie was divorced.”

  “Talk about coming out of left field.”

  “Sue me. There was a murder in town. That shakes me to the core. Anyway, Natalie left her husband back east. Why? Maybe there was animosity between them.”

  “You’re wondering whether her ex is in town.”

  “Exac
tly. Would her daughter know?”

  “Probably.” I wondered how Natalie’s daughter was faring. I bet she was shattered, unless she was the one who had killed her mother. No, not possible. She was a sweet, unassuming woman.

  “Do you think any of Natalie’s employees might have held a grudge?” Bailey asked.

  “Good question and one I’m sure Cinnamon Pritchett is considering.”

  Bailey stamped her foot. “Jenna.”

  “What? Need a cup of coffee?”

  “No.” She did. She knew it; I knew it. “We’ve got to help my mother. We can’t simply leave this up to the police.”

  “I know. Cool your jets. I’m on your side.”

  As we neared Latte Luck Café, I stopped. “Want a decaf?”

  “Why tempt myself?”

  “At least inhale.”

  She did then she shook out the tension from her shoulders, and we moved on.

  An hour later, as the sun was setting, we returned to Fisherman’s Village. The parking lot was filled with lookie-loos interested in catching a glimpse of our police force in action.

  “Hey, Jenna.” Rhett Jackson caught up with me on the boardwalk right outside The Cookbook Nook’s front door. “I was hoping I’d get a moment with you.” He touched my elbow.

  A tingle of desire coursed through me. “What’s up?” I managed to say. “Are you hoping to score some of Katie’s cookies?”

  “Nope. I’ve had my share.” He patted his firm abdomen. “Actually, I was visiting a pal upstairs at Surf and Sea.” In addition to The Cookbook Nook and Beaders of Paradise, Fisherman’s Village included Ye Olde Irish Linens, Vines Wine Bistro, an art house movie theater, and Surf and Sea, a surf and beach games shop. “He mentioned seeing Mitzi Sykes on the café patio during the break when the alarm went off.”

  Bailey pivoted short of the door and hurried back to us. “There’s no sunshine there,” she said.

  “I’m not following,” Rhett said.

  I explained. “Mitzi mentioned that she was going to take a vitamin D break. That means getting a few rays. She swears it’s the part of her daily regimen that keeps her looking so young. Just enough sun to give her skin a flush but no damage. Twenty minutes a day. Except there’s no sun on the patio. I had assumed she was headed to the beach.”

  “So why was Mitzi there?” Bailey said. “Do you think she pursued Natalie? Did she kill her? Mitzi was wearing a red suit. Blood—” She looked at me. “Was there any blood?”

  I nodded.

  “Blood wouldn’t show on a red suit.”

  I caught sight of Pepper outside Beaders of Paradise. Dressed as she was in black stripes, her fist on her hip, the other hand shading her eyes, she no longer looked sharp; she reminded me of Smee in Peter Pan. A mental picture of her kicking up a leg and singing, “Yo-ho-ho,” made me giggle and gave me an idea.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said and hurried down the boardwalk. “Hello, Pepper. You look nice.”

  She mumbled something unintelligible.

  I said, “Have the police questioned you already?”

  “Their presence is ruining business.”

  I offered a consoling smile. “We’re closed, too, if that makes you feel any better.” It did. The glee in her eyes was unmistakable. “Say,” I continued, “you left The Cookbook Nook before the fire alarm blared, right?”

  Pepper raised an eyebrow. “I saw Lola. I’m not lying.”

  “I’m not concerned about that,” I said, though I was. Deeply concerned. “Did you return to your shop? From this vantage point, you might have had a bird’s-eye view of anyone who entered the café.” For a nanosecond, I pondered whether Pepper might have motive to kill Natalie, but I couldn’t come up with a reason. Pepper wasn’t a competitor; she was a judge. And she and Natalie wouldn’t have vied for the same men. Only recently had I found out that Pepper carried a torch for my father. Long story, but it was part of the reason she hadn’t embraced my return to town.

  “Yes, I could see,” Pepper conceded.

  I happened to know that Pepper, whenever her shop was empty, stood vigil by the windows, peering out. I would prefer to sit in a chair and read a book. During lull times, I had been browsing culinary mysteries about a domestic diva, a coffee store owner, a Key West food critic, and more. The downside? The more I read, the hungrier I became.

  I said, “Okay, you could see, but were you looking?”

  “I was.” Pepper hurried to add, “For a moment. After I used the facilities.”

  “And did you see anyone? Like Mitzi Sykes?”

  “Now that you mention it.”

  My pulse kicked up a notch. “On the porch of the café?”

  “I saw her heading for the steps to the ocean.”

  Rats. Mitzi hadn’t headed to the alley. Pepper’s account put an end to that theory.

  “However,” Pepper added, “I didn’t see her descend the steps.”

  Chapter 6

  ELATED TO HAVE drummed up a suspect other than Lola, I rushed inside The Cookbook Nook to the sales counter, grabbed the telephone receiver, and dialed the precinct. At Taylor & Squibb, my boss had loved whenever I wore my creative hat and my juices were flowing. The most unique work, he said, was a result of inspiration and boldness. I asked for Chief Pritchett. When Cinnamon answered, I spewed out my discovery. Mitzi was a much better suspect, I told her. Her motive? To knock off the competition. I gave details of Mitzi sightings when the fire alarm had gone off.

  “Jenna,” Cinnamon said sharply. “Stop.”

  How I hated that tone. “No.” I refused to buckle. “Mitzi lost to Natalie for eight years in a row, and let’s not forget about last year’s YouTube fiasco. That could make anybody snap. And if Mitzi was already suspicious of her husband having an affair . . .”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She was seen acting suspiciously outside the bank.” I filled her in about Mitzi’s spying adventure.

  “You’ve been a busy girl.”

  “Lola is innocent.” I crossed my heart and hoped to die, not that Cinnamon could see the gesture, but the move was something I had done since I was little. “By the way, did you track down the chef?”

  “Yes. He is in Las Vegas, and he has a solid alibi.”

  “Did you find out who will inherit Natalie’s estate?”

  “Family members. All aboveboard. A standard will.”

  “Members, as in plural?”

  “Ellen Mumford has a sister.”

  “Where is she?”

  “On her way to town.”

  “And Natalie’s ex-husband?”

  “Have a good night.” Cinnamon hung up.

  So much for our budding friendship. I would have to tread softly and remind her along the way that communication was becoming a lost art. I envisioned a tongue-in-cheek public service ad campaign that might convey the message. It involved a woman rapping her knuckles on her friend’s forehead, maybe like the V8 commercial. Yoo-hoo, anybody home? The bottom of the screen would be emblazoned with: Talking. It’s good for the soul.

  Thankful that my sense of humor had returned, I decided to get to work on straightening up the store. Aunt Vera was gone, but I had enough energy to power a thousand klieg lights. So did Bailey. She chose the children’s corner. I went straight to work on the displays. Tigger bounded between us.

  A half hour later, Aunt Vera bustled in waving a piece of paper. “Yahoo,” she sang. “We’re set to reopen tomorrow. I decided to be proactive. I went to the precinct myself, and I begged and pleaded with Chief Pritchett. I told her that, seeing as the alarm could have been triggered from the alley and Katie had discarded the weapon the day before, our store should not be penalized. Cinnamon agreed. It probably helped that I offered her a single-card tarot reading.”

  Harrumph. Couldn’t Cinnamon have told me when I called that she was allowing us to reopen? Granted, being cleared to open didn’t free me of the guilt I felt. Natalie had died on our watch, right outside ou
r kitchen.

  “You’ll never guess what card I turned over.” Aunt Vera winked. “The Lovers.”

  The Lovers is the sixth trump or Major Arcana card in a tarot deck. It represents the obvious: a relationship or temptation.

  “Cinnamon flushed pink,” Aunt Vera said.

  “Do you think she’s in love?” Bailey asked.

  “Or hopeful.”

  I doubted that receiving a positive fortune had anything to do with Cinnamon’s decision to let us reopen, but why spoil my aunt’s lovely mood? She did a sultry cha-cha across the floor, her caftan swishing around her ankles. She once told me that in her younger years she had been quite a dancer. I’d taken a few ballroom dance lessons in college and had wanted to take more with David; we had never gotten around to it.

  Aunt Vera said, “An officer is on the way over to remove the yellow crime-scene tape. I’ll tell Katie.”

  “I’ll go,” Bailey said.

  I bet she hoped to sneak a cup of coffee.

  As Bailey headed down the hallway and my aunt retreated to the stockroom, Natalie’s daughter Ellen entered the shop with her adorable two-and-a-half-year-old daughter tucked into a stroller. The girl, who was sound asleep, had masses of curls and the longest eyelashes.

  “Are you open?” Ellen said. Though the temperature hovered in the sixties, she was bundled in a mid-calf-length black coat and wore a cashmere scarf around her neck. Her cheeks were blotched with tears, her lips devoid of color. I didn’t have the courage to tell her to wait to enter until a policeman removed the tape in the café. She had to be curious about where her mother had died.

  “Come on in.” Rather than pounce on Ellen and drub her with questions, I nestled onto a stool beside the counter and watched. As she always did, Ellen set the stroller in the rear near the children’s section, then she wandered through the store from display table to display table. “Sorry for the mess,” I said.

  “Did the customers do this?”

  “The fire alarm went off. The place was evacuated.”