Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series)

by Gerber, Daryl Wood

  “Temporary freedom.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  Around 5:00 P.M. Katie tracked me down. Not with food, which disappointed me. I don’t know why I was starved yet again. I thought being around the aroma of delicious food was stirring my appetite. If I didn’t watch out, my waistline would double in no time. Perhaps an extra cup of coffee instead of sweets as a treat was a good alternative.

  “Whew,” Katie said while she tied on a white apron. “It’s been crazy today. We’ve had so many customers I can barely breathe. Can you do me a favor? I need you to go to the store. We had a run on the lunch special.”

  “The crab melt?”

  “No, the Brazilian spiced fish salad. I need to make another batch of the tempero baiano, a Bahian seasoning. I’m completely out of turmeric, and I could also use some rosemary and thyme for the evening’s soup selection. Would you go, please? I can’t spare any staff.”

  Bailey, edgy since her mother’s departure, begged to tag along. How could I refuse?

  • • •

  THE CRYSTAL COVE Grocery Store was an intimate place, with wooden shelves, wooden bins, and a rustic wood floor. The owner, a baker by trade, made all the breads. A farmers’ market couldn’t have offered more fresh fruits and veggies. The herbs that Katie wanted, all locally grown, were offered in rattan-tied bunches. Hanging above the herbs were bags of spices.

  I grabbed three bundles of each herb on Katie’s list and a bag of turmeric. “You are jumpier than a dolphin in an ocean full of sharks,” I said to Bailey, who hadn’t stopped pulling on her left earlobe since we’d entered the store, a clear indication that she was tense. “How about downing some cola?”

  “No. I’m good. Sure, I miss my caffeine, but I want to conquer my craving. A healthy body means a healthy spirit.”

  “Okay, Miss Zen, then what’s eating you?”

  Her voice drifted to a hush. “Mom. Right before we left, I called her to check in. She was still shopping with the mayor. She has a tendency to binge shop.”

  “Like you,” I teased.

  Bailey screwed up her mouth.

  “Are you worried that she’s running into money trouble?”

  “No. Not at all. But binge shopping encourages her to buy things that don’t, um, look good on her. You know, things that don’t fit, though she convinces herself they do.”

  I laughed. “Don’t worry about it. As long as she doesn’t remove the sales tags, you can talk her into taking anything back.”

  “You’re right. I’m acting crazy.”

  “Concerned.”

  “Nuts. Speaking of which”—Bailey knuckled my arm—“what’s this I heard about you on The Pier this morning? You thought you saw David?”

  My cheeks warmed. “Who told you? Dad?”

  “Your aunt.”

  Which meant my father told her. So much for him thinking it was perfectly fine seeing my dead husband occasionally.

  “She’s worried.”

  Aha. That explained why my aunt had hovered near me while rubbing her amulet a couple of times today. I’d have to inform her that insanity couldn’t be frightened off by a few positive prayers. On the other hand, going crazy was not on my agenda. I made a mental note to call the therapist and set an appointment. What could it hurt?

  “Well?” Bailey said. “I’m waiting for a response.”

  “I’ve got David on the brain. It’s this thing with the Lucky Cat and the key and the coins.” I inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I want to know the truth.”

  I headed for the checkout line and saw Mitzi Sykes ahead of us placing item after item on the conveyor belt. She was wearing ginormous rings and multiple strands of necklaces. As she chatted up the clerk, using grand hand gestures, her metal bangles clanked. I flashed on the conversation with Flora, the Grill Fest contestant who was the owner of Home Sweet Home. She had spotted Mitzi spying on her husband. Mitzi wouldn’t have been able to do so in that getup, I thought. Way too noisy.

  I moved toward her. “Hey, Mitzi, who’s having a party?”

  Mitzi smiled. Her red lipstick made her luscious lips look even bigger. “Me. Well, not me. My client. You know the fellow who designed the Nature’s Retreat Hotel?”

  I did. Local architect. Big ego.

  “He’s such a gourmet. Snails. Lobster. Seven different kinds of cheeses. Bananas Foster for dessert.”

  I felt a bump on my grocery cart from behind and pivoted. Mitzi’s husband, Sam, was trying to inch by me. Slung over his arm was a mini-basket filled with fixings for spaghetti.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  I didn’t.

  He placed a dividing rod between his and Mitzi’s purchases, then rummaged through his pockets, mumbling as if he had misplaced something. Mitzi paid for her goods, and the clerk bagged them. Then Mitzi rolled her loaded cart toward the exit.

  “Babe, wait,” Sam called.

  A man who called his wife babe wasn’t a cheater, was he? Perhaps I was too naïve for words.

  “I’m not going anywhere, my love. You’ve got the keys,” Mitzi teased. She pulled her cart to a stop short of the exit.

  “No, I, um . . .” Sam scratched his neck. He caught sight of me watching him and instantly dropped his arm to his side. His cheeks burnished the same color as his chafed neck. “I seem to have misplaced my wallet.”

  Mitzi’s face morphed from flirty to flinty. She strode to Sam and in a hushed voice said, “What?”

  Sam sputtered. “I’m not sure what could have happened.”

  “You can’t have spent the food allowance already.”

  Food allowance? I mused. What was up with that?

  “No, I . . .” He dug again into his pockets. “I think I was robbed.”

  Mitzi huffed as if she had heard that excuse way too many times to count.

  “Fine. Forget it. What do you care?” Sam left his items on the conveyor belt and bolted from the store.

  Mitzi hurried after him but stopped at the door. As Sam tore from the lot in his Mercedes, Mitzi sagged against the jamb and dropped her forehead into her hands.

  I thrust the cash to pay for our goods at Bailey and dashed to Mitzi. “Are you okay?” Closer up, she smelled faintly of alcohol. Had she been taste-testing the brandy that was to go into her client’s Bananas Foster dessert?

  “I’m so embarrassed.” Mitzi whimpered. “I know better than to have an argument in public. My psychiatrist has warned me to keep personal matters private, but do I listen? It’s just”—she chewed her lip, taking off a layer of lipstick in the process—“I feel so raw, and Sam”—she sighed—“is a little raw, too. He . . . Oh, the whole world knows. He had a thing for Natalie.”

  I hadn’t known.

  “I thought with her gone that I could keep him interested, and for the past twenty-four hours, we’ve been good.”

  I stifled a gasp. Was Mitzi admitting that she had killed Natalie in a jealous rage?

  “And then I go and do something stupid like this,” Mitzi went on. “I bite off his head. What was I thinking? What do you bet he’s already looking for a new lover?”

  If Flora was to be trusted, Mitzi believed Sam was already looking. Why else would she have followed him to the bank? How had she tracked him down? Had she put a GPS device on his car?

  “I can’t prove he’s involved with anyone, except he’s always low on cash. What does he spend his money on? Flowers or trinkets? Not on me.”

  “Have you point-blank asked him?”

  “Sure.” Mitzi fluttered her hand. Her bangles clanged again. “He swears he’s investing his money here and there, but on more than one occasion he’s claimed that he was robbed. He’s innocent, he insists, and I’m the one who feels bad for asking. Same old, same old.”

  “No, I meant have you asked him about the affairs?”

  “Of course I’ve asked. He says I’m the only one for him. Except”—she glanced left and right—“Natalie insinuated otherwise.”

 
; “What did she say? When? At the Grill Fest?”

  Mitzi nodded. “She said I should keep an open eye. Can you believe the gall?”

  “An open eye about what?”

  “Can’t you guess? Lovers.”

  “Maybe she was trying to rattle you.” I couldn’t believe we were talking about Natalie as though she were alive, but Mitzi seemed so needy that I felt obligated to help her through her crisis. “Maybe Natalie was the one who had a thing for Sam, but he didn’t reciprocate,” I suggested.

  “All men reciprocate, don’t they?”

  I didn’t know. Did they? No, I wouldn’t believe it. Jaded, jilted Jenna. No, it didn’t fit me. “Mitzi, stop it. Sam is in love with you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

  “You have?”

  “He adores you.”

  “If only that were so.” She dug into her purse, pulled out a tissue, and blew her nose, then stuffed the tissue back, withdrew a lipstick, and swathed on a new layer. “I do everything I can to keep him interested. I exercise. I eat right. I do a nightly bath ritual, scrubbing my skin all over so it’s baby soft. Then I apply lotion using facial gloves I get from France. My skin is silky smooth. Feel.” She jutted out her arm.

  I flinched. She didn’t really want me to touch her, did she? Guess not. She tucked her arm against her side. Phew.

  “I often caught him texting Natalie,” Mitzi said. “Ping, ping, ping. How I hate the sound of that darned cell phone. Naturally, he claimed every text was about business, but c’mon, do I look dense?”

  I gaped at her. After what Flora had said, I began to wonder about Mitzi. Not only did she suspect Sam of having an affair with Manga Girl, but she believed he had been involved with Natalie. Was her husband a serial rover, or was she just plain paranoid?

  “Dang it,” Mitzi said and stood to her full height. She smoothed her chignon. “I’m a catch, aren’t I? I’m hot, I’m talented, and I’ve got a thriving business.”

  Bailey joined us. “What’s going on?”

  Mitzi cut her a bitter look. “Nothing. Not a thing in the world. Except I don’t have a ride.”

  “We’ll give you one,” Bailey offered.

  “Would you really?” Mitzi seemed so awestruck by the offer, I wondered again if she had been drinking.

  As we walked to Bailey’s Toyota RAV4, Bailey gave me a wink and said, “Say, Jenna, did you ask Mitzi if she saw anything suspicious when she was on the café patio yesterday?”

  Mitzi stopped pushing her cart. “What are you talking about? I . . .” She sputtered. “I was never on the patio.”

  “Sure, you were,” Bailey said. “One of the fellows who works upstairs at Fisherman’s Village saw you. Pepper Pritchett, too.”

  Mitzi stiffened. “Wait a sec. Hold it right there. Are you implying that I was anywhere in the vicinity of the crime scene? Do you think I killed Natalie Mumford? No way would I get close to that woman when she’s smoking like a chimney.”

  “Natalie smoked?” I said.

  “On the sly. Why else do you think she was in the alley?”

  That explained Natalie’s extra-heavy dose of perfume at the contest. Thinking back, I remembered seeing something that looked like a cigarette case in her opened purse.

  “Miss Holier than Holy didn’t think anyone knew,” Mitzi went on, “but, of course, everyone did. It drove Sam crazy. Coffin nails, he called them. His mother died of”—Mitzi leaned in and whispered—“the big C.”

  My gut wrenched. My mother had died of cancer, too, but not because she was a smoker. She hadn’t smoked. Ever. She was simply a tragic statistic.

  Mitzi tilted her head like a curious bird; her gaze turned harder than granite. “On second thought, I’m going to take a cab home.” Hurriedly, she fished her cell phone from her purse and started dialing. “It’s out of your way to drive me.”

  “It’s no bother,” Bailey said.

  “Yes, it is.” Without another word, Mitzi made a U-turn with her grocery cart and headed back to the store entrance, her cell phone tucked between her shoulder and chin.

  “Well, well.” Bailey stowed grocery bags in her car. “I guess she didn’t dare hang out with us for fear she’d spill more information. Care to fill me in on what went down?”

  I told her about Mitzi’s concern that Sam was having an affair with Natalie, her worry based upon Sam and Natalie’s many telephone text exchanges.

  “Interesting,” Bailey said. “You know, I did hear a ping right before we took the break that day.”

  “Didn’t the mayor tell everyone to turn off their cell phones?”

  Bailey smirked. “Does anyone ever obey that request? I remember Natalie looking at her cell phone right before the break. What if Sam texted Natalie? Maybe he intended to meet her clandestinely after the competition.”

  “Except Sam was attending the conference in San Jose.”

  “But Flora saw him at the bank.”

  “Late in the afternoon.”

  Bailey let that notion brew for a second. “What if Mitzi was the one who texted Natalie?”

  “I’m not following.”

  “What if Mitzi planned all along to kill Natalie? What if she nabbed Sam’s phone with the express intent of texting Natalie so Natalie would meet her alone in the alley?”

  “But she said that she wouldn’t have gone near Natalie when she was smoking.”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  Chapter 9

  ALTHOUGH I WAS beat, Katie had been adamant about giving me an after-work cooking lesson. Who cared if it was 9:00 P.M.? Not her. Tigger pranced around the cottage, checking her out as she set food items on the counter. We rarely had guests this late. Katie had brought her mother’s old Betty Crocker Cookbook, the checkerboard cover splattered with who-knew-what. Bailey, Katie’s accomplice, sat at the kitchen table, her finger propping up the raised arm of the Lucky Cat. Two minutes ago, she had affixed it with superglue. The appendage was so heavy, she couldn’t let go until the glue set. Tough break, I thought with more than a bit of spite as I yawned and stretched.

  “Making tomato soup isn’t hard,” Katie assured me. She set a pound of tomatoes, an onion, and herbs on a cutting board. Next, she pulled out a blender that I had yet to utilize. “A chop of this, a dash of that. I use homemade chicken stock at the café, but when I’m in a rush at home, I put in a natural, no-additives broth. You don’t pour in the cream until the very last because you don’t want it to curdle. In thirty minutes, snap, it’s done. Serve it with a chunk of bread, and you have a full meal.”

  “I ate dinner,” I said. “I’m not hungry.” By the time Bailey and I had returned to The Cookbook Nook after our grocery run, the store and café were bustling with customers. When the buyers at the shop petered out around 8:00 P.M., we closed, and I downed one of Katie’s specials. The Brazilian fish had been so spicy, I had needed three glasses of water. But, yum!

  “One can never turn down tomato soup,” Katie said.

  “It’s the perfect complement to a grilled cheese sandwich,” I replied. As I said the words, I thought of my mother. She had loved cold days with warm lunches. Perfect painting-and-wrapping-oneself-in-emotions days, she had called them. How I missed her and her positive attitude, her sunny smile, and our moments discussing artists’ styles and nuances.

  “Ooh, grilled cheese,” Katie crooned, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Do you have cheddar?”

  “No-o-o,” I said, putting a damper on her fun. “I’ll agree to a light meal and no more. Then bed. I’m beat.”

  “Spoilsport,” Bailey said.

  I mock glowered at her. “We have a full day tomorrow. So much to do before Natalie Mumford’s memorial.” Out of respect, we had agreed to close the shop for those two hours. It was the least we could do.

  Bailey said, “By the way, did you note the run on grilled cheese cookbooks today? It’s a mania. I ordered an overnight shipment. Hopefully, we’ll get them before the Grill Fest resumes tomorrow
afternoon.”

  I popped open a bottle of chardonnay. Tigger startled and nearly did a somersault. “Cool it, kitty,” I said then poured three short glasses of wine and handed one to each of my friends.

  Bailey frowned. “How exactly am I supposed to drink that?”

  “You have a free hand. Put down the tube of glue.”

  She glanced at the tube and laughed. “I think it’s stuck to my skin. I’ve never been good at arts and crafts.”

  I helped pry her loose.

  After she took a sip of wine, she said, “Better than caffeine any day. Now, did you tell Katie about the scene at the grocery store?”

  “What scene?” Katie asked.

  “Between Mitzi and Sam.” I recounted the event.

  “No way.” Katie wagged a finger. “I don’t believe Sam had a thing for Natalie. I mean, honestly, he’s an upstanding guy. He manages so many accounts in town. Two at Fisherman’s Village. Why, he even managed my former boss’s account.” Katie used to be the personal chef for an affluent widower who’d died at the ripe age of ninety-seven. “Sure, there was some talk.”

  “About Sam having an affair?” I said.

  “No, nothing that risqué.” She wriggled her nose. “I’m not one to gossip.”

  Bailey nearly snorted wine out her nose.

  Katie skewered her with a look. “Okay, maybe I am. I like to be in the know.”

  “Me, too,” Bailey said. “Share.”

  “Mr. Powers, my boss . . . One day he asked Sam about a section of his portfolio. Sam had terminated it without Mr. Powers’s approval, but Sam assured him that he had simply moved money to a better-positioned account. Sort of a day trade. In the end, Mr. Powers was satisfied.”

  Bailey moaned. “I dated a day trader once. The guy was as hyper as a three-year-old on a sugar diet.”

  I said, “That doesn’t address whether there’s any truth to Sam having an affair with Natalie.”

  “Right.” Katie laid a hand to her chest. “But I’m talking about character. Sam visited old man Powers often. He chatted him up as if he were his doting son. Never once did they talk about Sam’s interest in anyone but Mitzi. And I listened in. You know me.”