Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series)

by Gerber, Daryl Wood

  “Got a second?”

  “For you, a whole minute.”

  “Funny. Listen, are you sure the key hanging around my Lucky Cat’s neck was a safety deposit box key?”

  “I’m never sure of anything. It was a first guess. Long, narrow, five notches. You’re still drawing a blank?”

  I told her about my search. “I wish David had left me some clue.” My voice caught. “Something tangible.”

  “You’ll figure it out. I promise. But you can’t drive yourself crazy about it.”

  “I know.” I choked back tears.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. I will be. I’m tired. With Natalie’s murder . . . and—” I stopped myself from saying more or tears definitely would gush out. Life is not all about you, Jenna. Lola was the person we ought to have been concerned about. “How’s your mom?”

  “Hanging in. She’s a tough cookie.”

  “Like the ones I bake,” I joked.

  “That’s my pal. Find that sense of humor. Are you going to be all right?”

  “Yep. Good night. See you tomorrow.” I hung up and scooped up Tigger. He licked my chin. I kissed his nose. I considered calling Rhett and asking his opinion about the key but knew that wouldn’t be a good move. He might get the wrong signals. And why shouldn’t he? He wasn’t a key expert. I would’ve been calling because, well, heck, I was attracted to him.

  Instead, I dialed my father.

  • • •

  THE NEXT MORNING, I met my dad at The Pier to pole fish. He had suggested it last night when I wakened him. We stood at the end of the long stretch of boardwalk, bracing ourselves with our elbows on the railing, each holding a pole, its line dangling in the ocean. We never caught much. An occasional rockfish. We always threw them back.

  By 7:00 A.M., The Pier was already packed with people. Some waited in line to buy food. Others were fishing, like us, or power walking.

  “Look at those paddle boarders.” My father pointed at the ocean.

  A stream of adventurers, balancing on colorful surfboards and using long oars, glided across the cove. There wasn’t a finish line. They were merely practicing for the Paddle-a-thon coming up in a week. On the beach, multiple groups of adults and children tossed Frisbees. Dogs joined in the fun.

  “Dad, how’s Lola doing?”

  “She’s worried and giving ZZ guff.”

  “I thought the mayor couldn’t be her lawyer.”

  “She’s not, but ZZ’s got plenty of free advice.”

  “Lola isn’t capable of murder.”

  “Do we ever know if someone is capable? A crime of passion is simply that, someone acting before he or she can change course.” My father often made blanket assessments. “Cinnamon has asked Lola to come to the station again for more questions.”

  “Why is she riding Lola so hard?” I asked. “Don’t you, as Cinnamon’s mentor, have any sway over her?”

  “I was her mentor. No longer. Cinnamon is her own person. She makes decisions based on theories and fact.”

  “Bailey is worried.”

  “She needn’t be. Lola is one of the strongest women I know.” Dad nudged me with his shoulder. “How are you? Why did you call me so late? Not just to set a fishing date.”

  I hoisted my pole, wound the line and hook around it, and propped it against the railing. “I’ve been thinking a lot about David.”

  “Why?”

  “A ton of reasons.”

  My father peered into my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “If only—” I began.

  “If only the police had found his body. If only there had been closure.”

  “Yes.” I sighed.

  “Something else is eating at you.”

  I told him about the Lucky Cat statue and the coins that had spilled out. I was just about to tell him about the mysterious key when, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a man in the crowd who looked like David. Sandy hair. The right height. Broad shoulders. A confidence to his walk.

  “Jenna.” Dad gripped my shoulders. “You’re hyperventilating. What’s wrong?”

  I stared harder at the man. It wasn’t David, of course. Not even close. He was shorter, he wore glasses, and he had buckteeth. And he was very much alive.

  Dad said, “Jenna, sweetheart. Talk to me.”

  “I see David everywhere. On the beach. In crowds.”

  “I see your mother, too, if that’s any consolation.”

  “You mean I’m not crazy?”

  “You’re a wishful thinker. But watch out, next thing you know, you’ll be seeing ghosts. O-o-ooh.” My father imitated a wiggly-fingered specter.

  I punched him. “Don’t make fun.”

  “There’s a local therapist you might want to talk to.”

  “The one who organizes the October benefit luncheon? Maybe.” I indicated the flyers for the Grill Fest in my tote bag. After pole fishing, I had planned to roam The Pier and distribute them. “I’m going to get to work and put all this hoo-ha behind me. Promise. Got my pole?”

  “I’ve got your back.”

  I kissed him on the cheek, and then I raised my chin and strode confidently down the boardwalk. I didn’t feel self-assured, but thanks to working with actors for so many years, I could pretend like the best of them. Well, maybe not like Meryl Streep or Anne Hathaway, but you get the idea.

  As I neared Mum’s the Word Diner, my stomach growled like a motorboat on steroids. I had ventured into the restaurant a few times in the past, the last occasion over three years ago. The line outside was long, which meant the food had to be good. When I made it inside, the only spot available was at the counter. The place had undergone a facelift since my last visit. Turquoise checkered tablecloths adorned the tables. Beside the arced counter, fifties diner-style stools with metal rims and bright yellow cushions were anchored to the floor. Cheery turquoise-and-yellow window treatments and silver-framed photographs of The Pier finished the look. Copies of Natalie Mumford’s self-published cookbook with her winning Grill Fest recipes sat stacked beside the register.

  One look at the breakfast menu made me salivate: French toast with Grand Marnier sauce, a variety of omelets with homegrown herbs and vegetables, and a lobster-and-steak scramble. In honor of the Grill Fest, if a customer requested, the new chef would make a grilled cheese and serve it with homemade tomato soup.

  Ellen, who looked healthier than she had when she’d stopped in The Cookbook Nook yesterday, swung by and greeted me. For a second, I thought she might want to chat, but a customer hailed her and she moved away. I didn’t see her husband, Willie, which sort of disappointed me. As much as I hated to admit it, I had been hoping to see them together to observe how he treated her.

  A vibrant African-American waitress with an asymmetric, purple-tinged afro and enchanting purple eyes, sashayed to the counter. As she wiped it down, she said, “Long time no see. Jenna, right?” Her nameplate read: Rosie.

  “Good memory.”

  Rosie tapped her head. “Got a thing for faces, sugar. I do that mnemonic thing. You know, memory. ‘Run over your granny because it’s violent.’ R-O-Y-G-B-I-V. Colors of the rainbow. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet.”

  “Nice. Never heard that one. What did you use for my name?”

  Rosie laughed. “Jenna jumps jumping jacks.” My sister never would have come up with something so nice for her string of J words. “You look real healthy.”

  “Thanks. Speaking of jumping, it sure is hopping in here.”

  “Business has increased big-time since yesterday when Natalie . . . died, rest her soul.” Rosie crossed herself. “Public interest is a double-edged sword. It’s sad but profitable. The economy . . . well, don’t get me started. Things have been taking a downturn all over Crystal Cove. Haven’t you noticed it at that shop of yours?”

  “Business is pretty good, so far.”

  Rosie rapped her knuckles on the bar. “From your lips”—she pointed upward—“to His ears. Natalie was tr
imming services to cut costs until . . .” She placed two fingers over her mouth. “Pardon me. No talking about the dead.”

  “It’s all right. I understand.”

  “She is missed. She was a good woman. Tough but fair.”

  That was along the lines of what Ellen had said to me at the shop.

  “And Ellen?” I asked. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s okay. She’s thinking outside the box. You probably noticed a promotional sign outside.”

  I hadn’t.

  “Children under six eat free. That’s encouraged all sorts of new business. Kids can be such picky eaters. Parents don’t want to spend for a kid’s meal, know what I mean?” She hitched a thumb at Ellen. “Like you, she wants to have all sorts of special events. Pier Day. Super Sunday. Silly names, but catchy. She was also thinking of having a contest. A customer has to put a name and e-mail address on a slip of paper to be eligible to win a meal for four. What do you think?”

  “It’s a good idea.” I ordered the French toast with Grand Marnier sauce and a cup of coffee. When Rosie returned with my meal, I said, “Where’s Willie?”

  “Off with his little one. Ellen is spending entirely too much time at the diner. It’s the heartache that drives her.” Rosie clucked her tongue. “And seeing as Grandma Natalie isn’t around to help, well, Willie is doing most of the childrearing. He dotes on that girl of his.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Bebe. Ellen named her after that actress on that old TV show Cheers, but Willie calls her his Bonnie Blue, like out of Gone with the Wind. Willie wanted to buy her a big new house, but now I guess he won’t need to, seeing as they’ll have Natalie’s place all to themselves.”

  What a boon, I mused.

  “He’s sort of a nervous Nellie, if you ask me,” Rosie went on.

  “How is he to the staff?”

  “A boor, but all bosses are, aren’t they? He considers himself a big-picture guy. Says he can’t abide the minor details.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “But don’t believe him. How that man goes on about the teensiest things when it comes to his daughter. If Bebe gets a scratch, he’s on it with a bandage. She gets a snarl in her hair; he’s the one to brush it. Why, he was so worried when there was a ping in the engine of his car, he went to Rusty’s Repair Shop that minute.”

  Her words reminded me that I needed to pick up my VW at the shop. To get around, I had been riding my mother’s old bike.

  “That’s where Willie was at the time of Natalie’s murder,” Rosie went on.

  “He wasn’t here?”

  “Nope. Out getting his car fixed. Lord forbid if his car were to break down with his precious Bebe in it.” Rosie rolled her eyes. “Mind you, sugar, I don’t own a car. What do I know? But really, must he address every insignificant thing that very moment?”

  “You’re saying he misses a lot of work.”

  “Piles it all on Ellen.” Rosie peeked past me. “Oh, there they are.”

  She wiggled her fingers and blew a kiss. Not at Willie, who was entering the shop, but at Bebe, who was awake in her stroller. Willie looked a little ragged in holey jeans with his rumpled shirttail out; however, he greeted people with an easy smile.

  When he caught sight of me, something in his affable demeanor changed. His eyes narrowed. He scanned the restaurant and made a beeline for Ellen, who was chatting up an elderly couple. Willie parked his daughter in the stroller beside a table and pulled Ellen toward the kitchen door. Without releasing her, he ushered her beyond the door that divided the kitchen from the dining room. Through the glass porthole in the door, I could see him talking heatedly. Ellen cut a quick look at me—I was certain I was her target—and back at her husband. She shook her head.

  Was Willie asking whether she had encouraged me to come to the diner? Wasn’t I welcome? Maybe they were discussing Rosie, the waitress, but I didn’t think so. Ellen flinched. She said something and then pushed through the door to return to the dining room. Willie followed and, in full public view, pointed at his cheek. Ellen, like an obedient spouse, leaned forward and gave him a peck, but she didn’t look happy about it.

  Chapter 8

  BUSINESS THAT MORNING at the shop was busier than usual. By 10:00 A.M., I was exhausted. Downing two of Katie’s lemon meringue mini-cupcakes after eating the oversized portion of French toast at the Word had something to do with my lack of pep. Sugar blahs, my mother called them. When I told Bailey and my aunt that I was going to take a twenty-minute catnap in the office, neither argued. Bailey, who was still off caffeine, was zipping around the store at the speed of light, reorganizing everything, soup to nuts.

  While dozing, I suffered a muddle of dreams: Natalie and the chef’s resignation letter; the Lucky Cat crashing to the floor; Willie locking his precious daughter in his car as something in the car went ping, ping, ping; David running away from me. Last but not least, I dreamed of the display in the bay window at The Cookbook Nook. Something about it was off. I woke up with a crick in my neck. Eager to dismiss every dream as anxious nonsense, I focused on the window display.

  In the advertising business, we had to be prepared to revise and rewrite as well as recast a role if an actor wasn’t working out. I felt the same about the window display. Over the course of the next hour, I removed the oars, Frisbees, and sand toys, but I left the partial white picket fence. I set out beach towels and umbrellas. On the towels, I fanned a selection of the culinary mysteries we had in stock. All the books had cute titles like: A Brew to a Kill, Death in Four Courses, and The Diva Frosts a Cupcake. In addition, I placed decorative boxes nearby to indicate that the books included recipes. I added pretty floral aprons, mixing cups, and kitchen utensils, and I titled the area Beach Reading with Flavor.

  Near noon, Katie, bless her soul, brought in a batch of open-faced crab melt sandwiches, made just for the staff. She had decorated each with a teensy umbrella. To my surprise, my stomach growled. I craved protein.

  By mid-afternoon, a new wave of customers flocked into the shop. They perused the culinary mysteries with an enthusiasm bordering on frenzy. Everybody needs a book to read while basking in the sun, right? One of the women in the gathering, a charming woman and the leader of an eight-member book club, suggested I invite her book club to tea on a monthly basis so we could discuss food fiction. Pumped from the gusto in the shop, I jumped at the opportunity and asked if I might be able to grow the club. The leader was all for the idea. The more the merrier, she said, and then hinted that her pals might like to meet one of the mystery authors along the way. I had no idea whether an author or group of authors might come to quaint Crystal Cove, but I promised to do my best to lure them.

  Around 3:30 in the afternoon, as I stood at the top of a ladder restocking shelves—my calf muscles were getting a great workout from all the sales. Yahoo!—Mayor Zeller entered arm in arm with Lola. I was thrilled to see that the lines in Lola’s face weren’t nearly as deep as a few days ago; her eyes glistened with energy.

  I descended the ladder and joined them by the sales counter, where my aunt and Bailey were ringing up a steady stream of orders.

  “Good news,” the mayor warbled. “The Grill Fest will continue Friday, right after Ellen holds the memorial for her mother.”

  “She’s having a memorial instead of a funeral?” I said.

  Mayor Zeller shook her head with regret. “Poor thing. Our chief of police won’t release the body quite yet.”

  What more could Cinnamon glean from the corpse? Maybe the pieced-together resignation letter wasn’t the only evidence she had found.

  “When is the memorial?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow morning,” the mayor replied.

  “Even better news”—Lola shot an exultant finger into the air—“Chief Pritchett is allowing me to participate in the fest.”

  “Yippee!” Bailey hurried to her mother and gave her a hug so fierce I thought she might be trying to wring some caffeine from her. “Mom, I’m so happy for you. That me
ans you’re innocent.”

  “Not so fast,” Lola said, wriggling free. “I’m not out of the woods yet.”

  Bailey eyed me. “Jenna, tell them what we learned about Mitzi.”

  “What about her?” Lola asked.

  “Two different people claim Mitzi was in the vicinity of the café around the time of the murder,” I said.

  “That doesn’t put her at the crime scene,” Lola argued.

  “Near enough,” Bailey countered.

  “Why wasn’t she in the parking lot with everyone else?” the mayor asked.

  I explained Mitzi’s supposed need for vitamin D and her claim that she was headed for the beach.

  “That means she lied,” the mayor said.

  Lola scoffed. “We don’t know that. Don’t presume.”

  “Mom,” Bailey said. “Mitzi held a grudge against Natalie.”

  Mayor Zeller nodded. “And rightly so. Mitzi was never going to win the contest as long as Natalie was alive.”

  “That’s not true, ZZ,” Lola said. “Mitzi is a creative chef. Her private clients rave about the uniqueness of her gourmet meals.” Lola eyed me. “What about Natalie’s heirs, Jenna? I heard you mention that angle to Cinnamon.”

  “No, I mentioned it, Mother,” Bailey said. “By the way, did you know Ellen has a sister? The two of them stand to inherit.”

  Everyone looked as surprised as I had been. Talk about keeping family secrets in a closet.

  I said, “However, just between us, I think Ellen’s husband may have had a hand in Natalie’s murder.” I told them about my breakfast at Mum’s the Word. “He seems overly concerned about Ellen talking to anyone.” I explained how Willie coerced Ellen to return the books to the shelves yesterday. “I think they might be having financial difficulty. Ellen mentioned something about obligations. On the other hand, Willie has a solid alibi. He was at the car repair shop.”

  Mayor Zeller said, “I’ll keep an eye on him. We don’t want him giving Ellen and that daughter of hers any trouble. Now, Lola, let’s go. Ladies, if anyone needs us, Lola and I are going on a shopping expedition.” She ushered Lola out saying, “Hope you have your credit cards handy. We’re celebrating your freedom.”